


we call this bravery

by hurricaneharmony



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 06:12:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3680997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurricaneharmony/pseuds/hurricaneharmony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It’s not supposed to be this easy, she thinks. Isn’t she supposed to be afraid? It’s not supposed to be so </i>simple<i> to fall into a life with him, without having to clear extra space and time for him to fit.</i></p>
<p>

Sometimes, it's so easy to forget that the little things can be grand moments, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we call this bravery

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little bit because I've been thinking about this little poem by Anita Ofokansi (hence the title of the fic) and because I'm going to a poetry slam today, which has me thinking about people and space and time and how we can ever possibly make human interaction work.
> 
> As always, you can reach me at colourfulmoniker-hook on tumblr!

He calls her sweetheart, and she nudges her nose further into the collar of his jacket. She keeps a toothbrush in his bathroom cupboard, and he has a designated mug and seat at the dinner table at her parents’ loft, and she’s caught Henry tipping his chin up at Killian in David’s bro-nod when he ducks out to meet Grace Jefferson for a project. 

_It’s not supposed to be this easy_ , she thinks, carding her fingers through his hair as he rests his head in her lap, eyes closed under the sun. Isn’t she supposed to be _afraid?_ It’s not supposed to be so _simple_ to fall into a life with him, without having to clear extra space and time for him to fit. He opens his eyes and grins lazily up at her, and she rubs at his stubbly, sun-warmed cheek with her thumbs, and when he reaches up to pull her down to him in a sweet, upside-down kiss, the warmth in the pit of her belly is so _natural_ , so _familiar._ So painless it’s _bizarre._

There’s a certain rhythm to their days— the lull when she wakes to his lips on her shoulder blade, pulling her up to exchange a kiss for the press of a mug of coffee into her hands. The slow build as they dress and make breakfast, and he nuzzles at her neck while she has her hands elbow-deep in soapy water. The rushing out of the house with flushed cheeks and skewed buttons as she mutters about how waking up on time won’t be enough if they keep getting _distracted,_ the hasty kiss goodbye and the sleepy _hello again_ kiss when they come together again that evening. And the soft, quiet of the night with her head tucked under his chin, her lips pressed against the space between his collarbones as she drifts to sleep against warm skin and hard fingertips rubbing soft circles over her waist. 

She’s lived a life of running, of taking off without schedules or road maps. It’s the simplest pleasure to make plans with him, to know that tomorrow they’re going to dinner with her family and the next they have Henry, and the next, they’re alone. It’s so wonderful to just _be_. 

— 

Maybe you learn to love the food that your lover makes for you— like the _dreadful_ scrambled eggs of this world that he’s grown to accept. Maybe it’s not entirely selfish to want the other all the time, if they spend that whole sleepless night _giving._ Maybe, under the right hand, all her ticklish spots are erogenous zones. 

— 

She likes him best in the morning, she decides. All fluffy hair and honey-warm skin as he sighs, unwilling to part with his ridiculous buckwheat pillow— crunchy-sounding and weird-smelling, probably hundreds of years old— just yet. She likes how only half of his face is awake at this time of morning— how he blinks with one eye open just enough to reach for her, his lips pulling up at one corner. 

“Wait for me,” he mumbles, tugging at the hem of her shirt. “Give me five minutes.” She turns and bends down to bring his fingertips to her lips, before dropping his hand so it flops back against the mattress. 

“I’m late.” She whispers. “Meet me at the station when you wake up.” He groans his agreement, rolling deeper into her pillow. She pauses at the door to watch him with a smile as he throws his forearm over his eyes. “Good morning,” she calls over her shoulder as an afterthought as she tugs the door shut. 

Maybe it’s a crime to pick her favourite Killian. But as his mumble of _“Morning, sweetheart”_ reaches her through the door, she decides that it’s a minor offense. After all, she’s tasted the best of him and the worst of him, and she’ll only ever always choose both. 

— 

Nighttime Emma is his favourite, and he’s stopped trying to pretend otherwise. He likes the way her damp hair falls down her back and across the pillow when she flops down next to him, smelling of shampoo and the coconut oil she uses as lotion when he nuzzles his nose into the warm, damp space just between her collarbones, and she laughs breathlessly. He likes the droopy eyes, the sleepy smiles, the little freckles dusted across her nose and the tops of her cheekbones that only come out at night, like stars, after she’s washed her face. She wears loose flannel pants to bed in the winter and running shorts in the summer and one of his shirts always, and she always sleeps with her socks on, even though she sticks one foot out of the blanket to stay cool. She curls into him, sighs softly when he wraps his arm around her waist and presses his lips to the back of her neck, and every time, he swears that he couldn’t possibly love her more. 

— 

It isn’t always simple, though. Sometimes he’s distant, quiet, clicking his false hand into place instead of his hook and evading her touch. Sometimes, she gets angry for no good reason other than that he left the milk out, or she dropped a glass and he stepped on it, or that sometimes he makes her feel so much that she doesn’t know what to do, and lashing out is her first instinct. And when they clash, neither of them like to back down from a fight. Sometimes, it’s easier to say _I love you_ than _I’m sorry,_ so they sit in silence until they surrender, his arm slipping around her, or her head falling on his shoulder. 

“This whole thing is new for me,” she whispered after the first fight. “The trusting. The long haul.” He let out a long breath, but his eyes were soft as he turned to her. “I’ve never loved anyone like this before.” She swallowed hard, swallowed her pride, forced herself to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry for yelling at you.” And it stung a little to say it, but it’s the bravest thing she’s ever done, and the look in his eyes was enough to make her want to be the first one to apologize, always.   


“I forgive you,” he says. “And I’m sorry, too.”   


It isn’t always easy. It’s giving in and taking more, an endless cycle of messing up and reconciling, of forgiving one another, of choosing each other over and over, every day. 

But the choice is never hard to make. 

She chooses him when she wakes up, and when he’s pulling away. He chooses her while she’s sleeping, and when she’s exhausted, frustrated, snapping. They’ll choose each other again and again, _forever_ — and it’s the greatest privilege they’ve ever known. 


End file.
